More Deadly than the Male

by Graeme Davis

They were not easily injured. No maiming nor bruises resulted from his hasty blows with the rod. Would it be possible to destroy them? Their bodily substance resembled clammy putty in appearance, with the consistency of rubber. He had never conquered his repugnance sufficiently to handle one. He could not experiment upon them, but the chemicals he meant to employ with the most powerful explosives, he trusted, would make the work of annihilation swift and thorough.

  His preparations were delayed and hindered by their never-ending attempts to overcome him. The moment he became absorbed in his work, they crawled and crept with malignant insistence to a fresh attack. Once, in a movement of defence, he pricked the body of one with a sharpened tool, and he was almost suffocated by the fumes that arose from the yellow, viscid fluid that oozed from the wound.

  Escaping from the affrighted, indignant uproar that followed, he stood at his study-window to recover from the dizzy sickness. “That alone would make them formidable enemies of mankind,” he muttered.

  “The slaughter of a few would put to flight an army. Turned loose, they are sufficient now in numbers, with all their hellish characteristics, to lay waste this teeming city. Wretched, impotent creator that I am! Could I but turn back the dial of time a few short weeks how happily I could take my place beside the most ignorant toiler, and meddle no more with the prerogative of the Almighty!”

  In a few hours, the wound had healed, no trace of injury remaining; but they had learned new reason to fear him, and skulked about glowering, commenting upon him with shameless, insulting epithets.

  He found a note from his wife in his mail, informing him of the arrival in the city of a noted scientist whose coming had been largely of his arranging, months before. There was much dissatisfaction expressed at his absence, and demands were made that he attend the forthcoming banquet.

  “Of course, you will go,” she wrote. “And, dear, do come in early enough to give a little time to your family. We have hardly seen you for weeks and weeks; and though I have obeyed the law, I so long to see you that I have been tempted to transgress, and boldly make my way to you. Baby, who was just beginning to totter about when you saw him last, runs easily now on his sturdy little legs, and he can say “papa” quite plainly. Do come, dear; a few hours with us will rest you.”

  Rest indeed! Heaven itself could seem no sweeter to the miserable man than this glimpse of his home. His dear wife, content to live the life Omnipotence had planned for her; his sweet children, daily and harmoniously unfolding new graces of mind and body like lovely flowers—not for him was it to see their perfected maturity, from which he had hoped so much. With a groan he dropped his head, and wept bitter tears—tears that meant the renunciation of his own forfeited life.

  All was complete when the banquet-day arrived. He had but to press a small knob in the floor, and the mighty currents of electricity would flash around the room, setting in motion forces of such tremendous power and instantaneous action that the entire space would instantly be one flame, of an intensity that no conceivable matter could withstand.

  He had taken extraordinary precautions to guard the works from the curiosity and cunning of the creatures, protecting the button that controlled the whole with a metallic cover, which was held closely to the floor by screws.

  And now he looked upon the creatures, itemizing their hideousness, as if to prepare a paper descriptive of them for this gathering of scientific authorities. Pygmies, between three and four feet in height, immensely strong; long, thin, crooked limbs, in some of unequal length; squat, thick bodies; pointed heads, bald but for a tuft of hair at the crown; huge ears, that loosely flapped, dog-like; nose, little more than wide nostrils; mouth, a mere long slit, with protruding teeth; and eyes, ah! eyes that showed plainly far more than animal intelligence.

  They were small, oblique, set closely together, of a beady black, their only lids being a whitish membrane that swept them at intervals—but they sparkled and glowed with passion, dimmed with tears, and widened with thought. Those eyes, more than a score of them, were fixed upon him now with entreaty, menace, fear, revolt, and, most of all, judgment burning in their depths. Even the smaller ones, of which there were many in various sizes, eyed him with resentment and hate, while scurrying, like frightened rats, from corner to corner as he moved about.

  Let accident put him for a moment in their power, and the whole pack would be upon him, and tear him to shreds, as they would any human being. Yet so strange, so monstrous was this unprecedented creation, mingling of lowest animal ferocity and human mind and soul, that he had found it quite possible to teach them to read and write, and work mathematical problems, and they were perhaps capable of considerable education—but without one redeeming trait. Earth had no place for such.

  Their taste for blood was appalling; of all the food he offered, they preferred raw meat, the more gory the better. He had provided a quantity to employ them while he was away, and left them snarling over it.

  He tried to put all thought of them behind him as he locked the doors. For a few hours he would be free, rid of torment and anticipation. But a deep melancholy shadowed the happiness of his reunion with his family, and gloom sat with him at the banquet-table. He took no part in the festivities and discussions, and was so manifestly unfit to do so that none urged him. Only when the distinguished guest touched on the subject of the possibility—or impossibility, as he viewed it—of producing life chemically, did he rouse to interest.

  “It can never be done,” asserted the guest, “for the giving of the breath of life is the prerogative of the Omnipotent alone.”

  “Ah, but Professor Levison believes otherwise, and hopes some day to astonish us by exhibiting a creature which he has created, but whether beast or human we will have to wait for time to reveal!” one said, with light sarcasm.

  “And in the impossibility to determine beforehand what the creation shall be lies my objection to man’s assuming the responsibility, even if he could by any means attain to it. For who could say what a calamity might not be brought upon humanity in the shape of some detestable monstrosity, whose evil propensities would be beyond control? Science has a large field for research; one need not step aside to intrude where success, if possible, might mean widespread disaster.”

  The Professor shrank as from a blow, and the desire he had momentarily felt to exhibit his creation to the scoffers, and prove the reality of his assumption, died out in despair as he thought what an intolerable, devilish curse that creation was.

  No, nothing remained but silence and annihilation. He wondered, vaguely, as to the state of himself and his creatures in that place beyond the seething crucible of fire through which they would shortly pass together.

  His wife was alarmed at his worn face and the dull apathy with which he spoke of the meeting, to which he had formerly looked with such eagerness.

  “Dear,” she said, pleadingly, “you are wearing yourself out; drop everything, and rest. What will all the experiments and discoveries in the world matter to us if we have not you? Come, take a vacation, and let us go on our long-planned visit.”

  “I cannot now,” he said, so decisively that she felt it useless to insist.

  “At any rate, you can give yourself a few hours’ rest. Do not go back to the laboratory tonight.”

  “Oh, but I must!” he exclaimed. Then, taking her in his arms, he added: “My dearest, I cannot stay now, but I am planning to take a long rest soon.” This was for her comfort afterwards.

  He gazed at his sleeping children with yearning tenderness, and took leave of her with a solemn finality of manner that increased her anxiety. “It is as if he never expected to see us again,” she murmured, tearfully.

  From his study he could hear the creatures leaping, laughing, wrangling, forgetful as children of the impending fate they so clearly realized in his presence. He pitied, but could not save, them.

  And now the hour had come—all things waited the last act. But, like the condemned criminal taking leave of earth in a last ling
ering gaze, he longed for another farewell glimpse of the home he would enter no more.

  Going to the anteroom he threw open the shutter, and leaned out. How quiet the night! With what divine precision all things ran their appointed course, held and guided by Omnipotence! He lifted his heart in a prayer for protection and blessing upon the silent house which contained his dear ones. How dear he had never known till this sad hour in—

  What was it? Had the day of doom burst in all its terrible grandeur? The earth rocked with awful thunderings, the very heavens were blotted out with belching flame—then, suddenly, silence and darkness enveloped him.

  He opened his eyes, and looked about with feeble efforts at thought. He was in his own bed, and surely that was his wife’s dear face, bathed in happy tears, bending over him, asking: “Dear husband, are you better? Do you know me?”

  He nodded, smiling faintly; then memory returned, and a stream of questions rushed from his lips.

  “Hush! Hush!” She stopped him with her soft hand. “Be quiet. I will tell you all, for I know you will not rest otherwise. There was a fearful explosion at the laboratory, so fearful that it was heard across the city; the whole building seemed to burst out at once into flame, and—oh, my dearest!—we feared you were in it; but a kind providence must have sent you to the outer room, for you were blown through the hall-window, and you were rescued from the burning debris.” She paused to control her emotion.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Three weeks, and you have been in a raging fever till two days ago.”

  “Was all destroyed?” he breathed, anxiously.

  “Yes dear; everything. Nothing was left but a few scraps of twisted metal. But we will not mind that when your precious life was spared. You can rebuild when you are entirely recovered.”

  “I belong to you and the children now,” he murmured, in ambiguous answer, drawing her face down to his, feeling his stored life not his own.

  It was clear to him what had happened. The creatures had loosened the screws of the cap covering the knob, and had themselves brought about their destruction. With a thankful sigh, he fell into a restful slumber.

  A DISSATISFIED SOUL

  by Annie Trumbull Slosson

  1904

  The ninth of ten children born to a Connecticut merchant and politician, Annie Trumbull (baptized Anna) attended the Hartford Female Seminary, one of the first major colleges for female students in the United States. In 1867, she married a New York lawyer named Edward Slosson; the couple had no children.

  Several of her relatives were active in literary, scientific, and religious life, and at the time of her death, Annie was better known for her work in the field of entomology than for her fiction. Three species bear her name: Coelioxys slossoni, a leaf-cutter bee; Rhopalotria slossoni, a weevil; and Zethus slossonae, a wasp.

  She wrote in the regionalist “local color” style that was popular in the late eighteenth and early twentieth centuries. Many of her short stories were published in The Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s Bazaar, and subsequently collected into book form. “A Dissatisfied Soul” was published in 1904, bound together with “A Prophetic Romancer,” whose narrator meets her soul mate after discovering that they have both been struggling to compose the same story.

  “A Dissatisfied Soul” is a gentle sort of ghost story, about a friend who returns from the dead and, at first, carries on with her life as though nothing had happened. Her neighbors are full of questions that they do not quite know how to ask, but in the imperturbable Yankee fashion they accept things as they are. Even so, certain metaphysical problems cannot be ignored. While it is not the most terrifying tale in this collection, its gentle humanity and light touch upon profound issues make it quite satisfying.

  It was when Elder Lincoln was supplying the pulpit of the old Union Meeting-House in Franconia. He was a Congregationalist, but was always styled Elder, as was also any clergyman of any denomination; it was, and is now, considered there the fit and proper title for a minister. There were three places of worship in the village representing as many denominations, called colloquially by the residents the Congo, the Freewill, and the Second-Ad, these names being “short” for the Congregationalist, Freewill Baptist, and Second-Adventist churches.

  The Congregationalists and Baptists held their services in the same house of worship, each taking its turn, yearly I think, in providing a clergyman. Elder Lincoln was the choice of the Congos at that time, a dear, simple-hearted old man whom we loved well.

  We were sitting together, the good Elder and I, on the piazza of the little inn—it was when Uncle Eben kept it—and talking quietly of many things. I do not recall just how it came about, but I know that our conversation at last veered around to the subject of the soul’s immortality, its condition immediately after it left the body, possible probation, and the intermediate state, technically so called. In the midst of this talk I saw an odd look upon the face of the Elder, a sort of whimsical smile, as if he were thinking of something not so grave as the topic of which we talked, and when he spoke, his words seemed strangely irrelevant. “Do you know,” he asked, “who has taken the old mill-house on the Landaff road, the one, you know, where Captain Noyes lived?” I did not know; I had heard that somebody had lately moved into the old house, but had not heard the name of the new occupant.

  “Well,” said the Elder, still with that quaint smile upon his face, “before you form any definite opinions upon this subject of the intermediate state you should talk with the good woman who lives in that old house.” He would not explain further, save to tell me that Mrs. Weaver of Bradford had taken the house, that she was an elderly woman, practically alone in the world, anxious to know her new neighbors and to make new friends.

  It was largely owing to this hint that, soon after our Sunday evening talk, I came to know Mrs. Apollos Weaver, to gain her friendship and confidence, and to hear her strange story.

  It was not told me all at one time, but intermittently as the summer days went by. Yet every word of the tale was spoken in the old mill-house, and I never pass that ancient brown dwelling, standing high above the road on its steep, grassy bank, with the two tall elms in front, the big lilac bush at the door, and the cinnamon rosebushes straggling down to the road, that I do not think of Mrs. Weaver and her story.

  It was not in reply to any question of mine that she told it, for, notwithstanding Elder Lincoln’s suggestion, I somehow shrank from asking her directly about her theological views and beliefs. I had received a telegram one day relating to a business matter, and as I sat with Mrs. Weaver at the open door of the mill-house, I spoke of it, and of the nervous dread the sight of one of those dull yellow envelopes always brought me.

  “Yes,” she said, “they’re scary things, any way you take it; but sometimes the writing one is worse than getting one. I never shall forget, as long as I live, the time I tried and tried, till I thought I should go crazy trying, to put just the right words, and not more than ten of them, into a telegraph to John Nelson. Over and over I went with it, saying the words to myself, and trying to pick out something that would sort of break the news easy, and yet have him sense it without any mistake: ‘Maria has come back, don’t be scared, all well here.’ No, the first part of that was too dreadful sudden. ‘Don’t be surprised to hear Maria is with us now!’ Oh no, how could he help being surprised, and how could I help making him so?

  “For you see, Maria was dead and buried, and had been for three whole weeks!

  “John Nelson had stood by her dying bed at the very end; he’d been at the funeral, one of the mourners, being her own half-brother and her nighest relation. He was the last one of the family to view the remains, and had stayed behind with Mr. Weaver and one of the neighbors to see the grave filled up. So to hear she was staying with us now would be amazing enough to him, however I could break it or smooth it down. It was amazing to us, and is now to look back at, only we sort of got used to it after a spell, as you do to anything.

&
nbsp; “Maria Bliven wasn’t a near relation of ours, being only my first husband’s sister,—I was Mrs. Bliven when I married Mr. Weaver, you know,—but she had lived with us off and on for years, and she’d been buried from our house. Mr. Weaver’d been real good about having her there, though lots of men wouldn’t have been, she belonging, as you might say, to another dispensation, my first husband’s relations. The fact was, she didn’t stay to our house long enough at a time for anybody to get tired of her,—never stayed anywheres long enough for that. She was the fittiest, restlessest, changeablest person I ever saw or heard of; and never, never quite satisfied. A week in one place was enough, and more than enough, for Maria. She’d fidget and fuss and walk up and down, and twitch her feet and wiggle her fingers, and make you too nervous for anything, if she had to stay in one spot twenty-four hours, I was going to say. So always just as I was going to be afraid Mr. Weaver would get sick of seeing Maria around and having a distant relation like her at the table every meal, she’d come down some morning with her carpet-bag in her hand, and say she guessed she’d go over to Haverhill and spend a few days with Mrs. Deacon Colby, or she’d take the cars for Newbury or Fairlee to visit with the Bishops or Captain Sanborn’s folks, and sometimes as far as Littleton to Jane Spooner’s. Then Mr. Weaver and me, we’d have a nice quiet spell all to ourselves, and just when we were ready for a change and a mite of company and talk, Maria would come traipsing back. Something didn’t suit her, and she wasn’t satisfied, but she’d always have lots of news to tell, and we were glad to see her.

  “Off and on, off and on, that was Maria all over, and more off than on. Why, the time she got her last sickness—the last one, I mean, before the time I’m telling you about—it was her getting so restless after she’d been staying three or four days with Aunt Ellen Bragg over to Piermont, and starting for home in a driving snowstorm. She got chilled through and through, took lung fever, and only lived about ten days.